


A Bullet to the Head

by Lady In A Tux (CollateralDamage666)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 17:37:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollateralDamage666/pseuds/Lady%20In%20A%20Tux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been three years and John decides that it's time to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bullet to the Head

“There was nothing you could have done.”

“Yes there was.  I could have been there for him.”

“Which would have ended in both of you dying.”

“Better than this alternative.  I may as well have died that day.”

“Why?”

“Because I feel dead already.”

* * *

 

His therapist was stupid, hopeless.  Sherlock had been right about that.  He went to two appointments and then never returned.  Her messages he deleted from his cell phone, never even listening to the words she left him.  He knew they would be unintelligent.  Finally, she stopped trying to contact him.  She couldn’t help him, no one could.  He shut off the rest of the world, Mrs. Hudson the only one to see him somewhat regularly now, and that was when he decided to roll out of bed.  Greg and Mycroft he ignored.  He blamed them, in part, for Sherlock’s undoing.

So he stayed to himself.  He liked to think he was content that way, cut off from the rest of society, safe in his own little world.  Unfortunately, that world happened to contain Sherlock.  When he thought too much about the man, he had to move around, had to focus his mind on other things.  Of course, he didn’t much more to focus his mind on, his life had become so focused on the man that now that he was out of the picture, his world was all out of sync.  He dreamed either of the fall or the war, constantly plagued with nightmares worse than those which had followed him back from the war.  He would often wake with Sherlock’s name being ripped from his throat.  If it ever disturbed Mrs. Hudson during the night, she never mentioned it.

It had been three years now exactly and John found himself where he always was on this day, crouched down in front of Sherlock’s gravestone, fingers pressed against the dark stone.  He let his fingers trace over the words lightly, feeling the engravings under his fingertips before letting them stop on the “S” of his first name.  He never cried he, hadn’t cried in years, but his body was heavy and the sky was dark, promising rain and when he let the first tear roll down his cheek, his body shuddered as a sad gasp left his mouth.

“I guess I’m not getting that miracle I asked for, huh?”  He let out a hollow laugh, “Though I suppose I should have seen that coming.  You always were such a selfish git, leaving me like this, going off on your own.  You probably thought you had gone where I couldn’t follow for years to come, but you were wrong,” he tugged an object out of his jacket pocket and his body seemed to grow lighter as he held it in his hands, feeling the weight of it, “Don’t worry, Sherlock, I’m going to come follow you again.”

* * *

 

He got the text halfway back home, his cellphone vibrating in his coat pocket.  For half a second he decided to ignore it, let his brother simmer on the other end, but decided to pull it out when he knew his brother would only be texting him at this point if he had reason behind it.

_John’s at the cemetery. – MH_

That was to be expected, Sherlock supposed, today was the third anniversary of his supposed death, after all.  He leant forward and told the cabbie the new address.  He grumbled a bit, but changed lanes to go in the direction he needed to.  As he settled back into his seat, staring out at the familiar buildings as they passed, his phone, still held tightly in his hand, vibrated again.  He sighed.  What more could Mycroft possibly tell him now?

_He’s got a gun. – MH_

In about 4 seconds, Sherlock had come to the conclusion that his heart had stopped beating, that traffic was too bloody busy, and he could make it to the cemetery before this blasted contraption could.  And he let the cabbie know about his last thought by yelling at him to stop before throwing a wad a money his way,.  He crawled out of the back of the automobile and sprinted down an alleyway to the right.  He was moving full speed toward the cemetery, weaving through traffic when he got to streets, and ignoring the symphony of honks and squeals that rose up in his wake.

He had been right, of course, and gotten there way before the cab would have been able to.  Not even pausing at the entrance to catch his breath, he continues into area, running over the grass.  There was no time for pause, he could do it later once he knew John was safe.  Safe from himself.  He could see his gravestone now and felt his breath stutter in his chest when he saw John crouched in front of it, in one piece.  Maybe Mycroft had lied to him, just pulled his strings and his footsteps slowed.  Until the gun made its appearance, rising up without hesitation, muzzle pressed to John’s temple.

The sound, the yell, which comes out of Sherlock’s throat doesn’t even sound human, John’s name ripped apart in his vocal cords, coming out shredded.  He sees John flinch at the sound of his voice, back going straight, recognition flaring thorough his spine.  And then the gun goes off.  Sherlock’s running full speed again now, the ache in his lungs and legs forgotten as he tries to make it to his friend’s body before it hits the ground.  He doesn’t make it in time and skids to the ground, hovering over the still body of one John Hamish Watson.  His hands are shaking, not from adrenaline, but from fear as he tries to decide whether to touch John or not.  It’s when his fingers flutter to John’s cheek that his brain finally catches up with him.

John was warm to the touch.  Not that that was unusual after such a short amount of time being dead, but the blood, there was very little of it for the wound.  A head wound like the one John had been aiming for would have had massive blood loss.  He tried to find the wound, fingers brushing lightly over sticky hair.  He’s staring at John’s holding his breath and wondering.  Wondering if- John’s chest moves as he inhales and Sherlock exhales in the next move, relief coursing through his body.  His fingers go back to searching, tracing around the wound.

It didn’t seem deep, and if he was correct, the bullet hadn’t even entered his skull.  In any case, there was a lot of blood, like all head wounds and he didn’t think twice before he ripped off his scarf, instead wrapping it around John’s head tightly, who let out of groan of pain from the cinching, but otherwise didn’t move.  He reached into his pocket to call an ambulance, only to find a text waiting for him.  Mycroft had already gotten an ambulance, and he put away the phone to focus all his attention on the bleeding man in front of him.  He pulled him up, enveloping him in his thin arms.  John seemed tiny to him and it was obvious he hadn’t been living well these past years.  Sherlock felt a pang of remorse, like a dagger twisting into his body, and he held John closer, lips pressed to the top of his head and not caring that he was being covered in blood.

* * *

 

It was days before John woke up in the hospital and Sherlock had spent almost every minute of that time pacing in the room until Mycroft had made him sit down and rest, limbs tossed out over the uncomfortable chairs set up next to the wall.  That was how John first saw him, eyes slowly opening back up to look at the world, too bright to open his eyes at first, the room all white, until his gaze flickered over to the black blob in his peripheral vision.  And then he stared, not sure if what he was an illusion or truly there.  It wasn’t until he tried out his voice, sandy and cracked from no use and lack of water, to say the man’s name that he roused the sleeping form.

Sherlock first woke with a shake of his head, a frown on his lips before he remembered just why he was waking and he was ripped out of the blackness like a drowning man being saved.  He yawned and rubbed at his eyes, sitting up to look over at John, who merely stared back.  He stood up, all legs, and walked hesitantly to the bedside, John’s eyes never leaving his own until the smaller man had to lie down flat to crane his neck back to keep the gaze.  John reached out with his nearest hand and Sherlock responded, their fingers bumping together awkwardly before sliding into place, gripping tight around each other.

“Sherlock.”

“John.”

They were more like exhales of breath than words.

* * *

 

Their first kiss was on a Saturday months later, sun shining in the sky for once as they walked away from a crime scene, giggling like two inappropriate little children.  It felt so nostalgic, so like their very first case together, that so many emotions rushed through their bodies neither even noted when their lips touched until they moaned at the contact.  By then there was no stopping them, lips pushing against each other, hands scrambling at clothes and twisting into each others hair.  They didn’t care that everyone there was staring at them as they devoured one another while leaning against one of the worker’s cars.

Sherlock just hoped that it was Sally’s car they were currently snogging each other senseless on.  She’s have to burn the thing if she ever wanted to forget this image.

* * *

 

Sometimes when they lay together in bed, John curled up, back pressed up to Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock would tangle his hands into the shorter man’s hair, kissing the scalp beneath the short blonde strands.  He would run his long fingers over the scar on John’s temple, peppering light kisses over the puckered skin, up to where it disappeared under his hair.  Then he would just leave his fingers there, tracing it and remembering the time he almost lost this man he had come to love with all his heart.  At first, every touch came with pain, but that had diminished and now it came with a promise.  A promise that he would never leave, never cause the pain John felt ever again.

A promise that he would be at John’s side even when death would take them in hand, as it could only pull them down together.


End file.
